


an egg in this trying time

by Xygenscenic



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22733086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xygenscenic/pseuds/Xygenscenic
Summary: Mordecai has lost plenty... more than he should be able to take, but he presses on. It makes him bitter, ornery, and hostile--more than usual. Brick has a solution.
Relationships: Brick/Mordecai (Borderlands)
Kudos: 63





	an egg in this trying time

**Author's Note:**

> I am a rabid Borderlands fan, but most of my writing has been RP. This is one of the few independent "works" I've scrounged out of my brain. Short and sweet, I hope you enjoy.

“Those had better not be the kind that bite,  _ amigo _ ; I’m still sore from the last ones,” Mordecai grunted, not even looking up from the beautiful rifle upon which he was performing routine maintenance. He had a collection of well-kept firearms, mostly of the revolver or sniper rifle varieties, but there was a small selection of repeaters to the hunter’s name and of which he was exceedingly proud. 

“I checked ‘em this time,” Brick promised, fully entering the doorway of  _ Casa de Mordecai _ , a cave system that the hunter had outfitted for his comfort, relatively speaking. Animal skins and stuffed heads lined the floors and walls. His favorite skin divided his “room” from the rest of what could only have been described as a stone-hewn studio apartment. This place was rent-free, however, which suited the painfully frugal Vault Hunter well. 

At one end, the area was dominated by a massive hole in the rocks which acted as a window, a sniper’s nest, and a launching point for Bloodwing. The corpse-eater's perch was notably empty, though a rosary hung from one side; this twitched in a light breeze, but otherwise, all was still. Brick didn’t focus on it long and instead set the flowers in a vase near the door. There were flecks of blood on it, likely from the last set he had brought. These latest were more of a peace offering, compensation for the bitey ones, found in the Atlas biodome complex. 

“I licked ‘em,” the berserker added, by way of explanation. Mordecai looked up, raised a brow, and then shook his head. He had no trouble believing Brick had done this. Nothing could surprise him anymore. His years traveling the galaxy had taught him to expect the unexpected; Pandora had reeducated him thoroughly and had shown him that there was simply no way to do this. Here, he had learned to surf, so to speak, riding whatever wave came next. 

“‘Course you did.”

Brick moved past the table where Mordecai worked, skillful fingers finding parts and pieces, oiling them carefully and sliding them back together. This weapon, Brick recognized as a trophy piece called Reaver’s Edge. He suspected Mordecai only kept it around because the head of its former user had been vaporized beyond recognition and he couldn’t put  _ that _ on his wall. _That_ had been a grudge match for the ages. Mordecai had forced his companions to step back and let him battle it out with Reaver, who had proclaimed himself a sniper, as well. But Mordecai was so much more than just a sniper; the man was a hunter, perhaps _the_ hunter. 

Once more, the berserker’s eyes fell on that empty perch. Thence, they followed a veritable trail of rakk ale bottles. There were independent bottles and piles of them. They weren’t lined up like dominos, which he had half-expected; Mordecai had a pattern and this was part of it, but contrary to that visual, he’d at least done himself the courtesy of stacking them here and there for easy access later. Pandora had no recycling program, unsurprisingly, but bottles made for satisfying targets. 

Brick’s attention finally landed back on Mordecai and his workbench. It was filled with gun parts, fewer now than when he had walked in, and empty bottles. As he watched, the hunter lifted one to his lips and emptied it without missing a beat. He had been bad when Moxxi was finished with him, but this was so, so much worse. Brick half expected alcohol poisoning to take him and to have to grab a runner and pick his friend up at the nearest New-U station, cursing and spitting that he had wasted money. It would have served Mordecai right, but the thought did not sit well with Brick. 

“Lilith asked me to see if you wouldn’t mind helping me do a job for Hammerlock,” Brick rumbled finally, approaching his friend from the rear. That was a dangerous move for just about anyone else. Mordecai did not shift, however, and continued cleaning the Edge, as if he had not heard Brick. The berserker knew his friend had registered him, however. The tiniest shift in posture had told Brick everything. Mordecai was a broken man, in more ways than one, but just now, it looked a bit like putting his pieces back together was going to be like gluing powder, rather than shards. 

“That all?” Mordecai’s voice was low, dangerous, caustic, and absolutely several bottles in. He was in no shape to go on any mission, especially not the one Lilith had proposed. It was likely their siren companion had suspected this and thought perhaps Brick’s renewed presence would have sparked something in the hunter. As yet, it had not, but there was always hope. 

“More for me,” Brick responded, shrugging. “But he’s offering a lot.” 

Sir Hammerlock was an amicable fellow and unlikely to bother Mordecai while he was clearly in mourning. He was also not as familiar with the man’s pattern and predisposition toward spiraling self-destruction. Lilith, Brick thought, had made the right call enlisting his help. Besides, this kind of thing was right up Mordecai’s alley. 

Cautiously, Brick laid a hand on Mordecai’s thin shoulder and squeezed it. “Mordy,” he began, “I’m sorry… About all this… About Blood—”

“Don’t you say it! Not his name! NOT here,  _ pendejo _ !” The firearm was reassembled, the final pieces fitting in with a few flicks and twists of skilled fingers and wrists and suddenly the barrel was shoved up under Brick’s chin. Brick had forgotten for a moment just how quick his friend could be when he wanted, even deep in his cups. He did not shift to remove the barrel, however, opting instead to stare the other man down. 

“I know it hurts,” Brick continued. “But this cave is killing you.”

Mordecai’s jaw tightened visibly, but he lowered the rifle and stood fully, brushing past Brick to replace it on its rack. Reaver’s Edge had a special place on Mordecai’s wall. Every trophy did. There was a place for everything and everything was perpetually in its place. He only took certain items down and then only to clean or maintain them. The man was surprisingly fastidious when his mind was not bogged down by loss. 

“No it’s not,” said Mordecai resolutely, “I am.”

Brick bristled then, feeling the rage pooling in his guts. He despised it when Mordecai talked this way. It was not often, though the man could be a bit of a downer. This was serious. Something about the tone rubbed the berserker in a VERY wrong way, but rather than punch his way out, the usual tried-and-true method, he choked it back and crossed huge arms over his chest. 

Mordecai stood for several moments, his back to Brick. He wanted the man to leave, craved solitude. He needed to think, or maybe to drown his thoughts. He desired sleep, long, deep sleep, but his mind was racing. It was difficult to resist such an offer, knowing how generous Hammerlock tended to be, but at the same time, he knew full well he was far from his peak and there was no way he would allow Brick to carry him, literally or figuratively. Decent vantage point though Brick’s shoulders might have been, now was hardly the time. But when _would_ be the time?

“How long are you going to run?” It was Brick who broke the silence. The words hit Mordecai in the back like a volley of darts, stinging him. They did not dig deep enough to bleed him out, but the pinpricks of accuracy were enough to drive him almost mad. He clenched his fists at his sides and then wrapped his arms around himself, squeezing tight, as if he could force the breath out and have done with it. Brick half expected to hear a rib crack. What he heard instead was Mordecai’s voice, still low, but resigned. 

“Long as I have to.”

That was all Brick could take and he turned, leaving without another word. Hammerlock had work and Mordy wasn’t biting. That was fine. If he spent another moment in that depressing cave smelling of booze and stale air, he would have lost his mind. The Slabs were preferable to his best friend right now and that was not a good sign. Those guys, he could kill on a whim, for fun if he wanted. Mordecai was different. He loved Mordecai, hated seeing him suffer, and hated most of all that he had imposed a good bit of it on himself. 

What was he going to tell Lilith? Likely, it would be nothing she did not expect, but the delivery would hurt all the same. They both cared for their friend, but could think of nothing to do to help him. He had to help himself. The worst part was knowing that Mordecai  _ also _ knew this and was actively choosing not to do so, almost fighting against recovery. It was as if he craved this spiral into despair and darkness. Maybe he did. Who could say? 

The sound of the runner roaring away was the hunter’s signal that Brick had given up and he finally turned, pointedly avoiding Bloodwing’s empty perch. He was headed toward his makeshift bedroom and the longest nap he could manage before Handsome Jack’s horrid, mocking voice snapped him back to reality and reminded him that he was alone.

~ 

It was a fortnight before Mordecai saw Brick again. He had only begun worrying after the first week, and had even reached out to Lilith at Sanctuary, to see if she or Hammerlock had seen the berserker. It was this worry which had compelled him to finally step outside his cave and smell fresh air for the first time in months. 

The wind chapped his exposed flesh, of which there was very little, and brought an invigorating shiver to his whole, lanky frame, ill-suited to the cold as it was. Patrolling without Bloodwing seemed wrong, but he had no choice if he wanted to find Brick. He had not returned to Hammerlock for payment, which meant he was either still on the mission, or was doing other things to make the trip more efficient, picking up and fulfilling various tasks and bounties on his way. 

Mordecai tried Lucky’s Last Chance first, in the Dahl Headland and found it predictably overrun with scythid-worshiping bandits. He mowed them down with hardly a bead of sweat for his efforts and moved on, inquiring after him in the Dust, which almost netted him a date with Ellie, a sweet, if rough-hewn woman who, for all her charms, was simply not Mordecai’s type. He found himself in Thousand Cuts eventually, forced to massacre the Slabs just to find someone who spoke in intelligible, full sentences. This, too, yielded little.

His last option was Hammerlock on Sanctuary. Mordecai had not wanted to seem worried when he asked after Brick the first time, had played it off as if he simply wanted to drink with the man, or that Brick owed him some money. Mordecai was tight-fisted, they all knew that, and owing him was bad news. He resolved to give it one more day and almost reluctantly headed back to his cave. He needed a drink, nap, and then a little more courage to swallow his damnable pride and speak to Sir Hammerlock. He did not want to admit to anyone, least of all himself, that he was worried.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t seen him since he took on my mission in Jakobs Cove, old boy. I’m certain your punchy friend is just taking his time, enjoying the sights. The Cove has trees you could live in, by golly. If I didn’t already have a fabulous hunting lodge out on the wastes near Hollow Point, I might invest. It has been years, I’ll admit, but I’m quite certain the rumors about shambling corpses are highly exaggerated.”

This did not instill confidence in the hunter, who had seen Jakobs Cove much more recently than Sir Hammerlock and knew firsthand what kind of undead horseshit lurked there. It made his skin crawl just thinking about it. He pulled himself belly-up to the bar and ordered a shot. Moxxi obliged, but lingered a moment.

“You look like hell, Sugar. What’s on your mind?” The music thumped and the people jostled as Mordecai spoke, quietly, in confidence, so only  _ she _ could hear. Somehow, she was still easy to talk to, an open ear and an even more open mind. He stopped himself staring at her cleavage, which became easier as he spoke, seated at one corner of her counter, away from everything as much as he could manage, spilling feelings he had not wanted to acknowledge to himself, much less another soul.

“Oh, Mordy, baby,” she cooed, reaching out to stroke a wind-burnt cheek. There was very little exposed flesh on the hunter’s body, but this was one of the exceptions. He leaned into it, eyes closing behind his goggles. She always knew how to touch him, even in less intimate moments, to make him feel wanted. 

“I gotta go to Jakobs Cove,” he said finally, unable to meet her gaze. Overcoming his fear of the undead would have to happen quickly. He didn’t know what kind of trouble Brick might have found, but if it was keeping him  _ this _ long, there was no telling. The thought of Ned’s mutated, gut-spewing form flashed behind Mordecai’s eyelids when he blinked and the hunter shuddered 

“No, you need to go home, Mordecai,” said the bartender, smiling softly, “and sleep this off.” She gestured to the bottles. “Don’t worry. It’s on me. Go home.”

He groaned and stood, knees cracking. Moxxi was right. He was a good shot drunk, but not drunk and _scared_. There was no doubt that the corpses which had inhabited Jakobs Cove before would still very much be present and he was in no condition to meet them head on today. Maybe not ever, but for Brick, he would attempt it. Mordecai found himself wondering how the New-U insurance policy might have applied to shambling corpses. Corporate greed made the universe go 'round, evidently, because there had been many, many more undead in the Cove than there should have been after the absolute slaughter dished out by the Vault Hunters. 

He returned home, crashed hard, and slept the rest of the day away. Curling on himself, he dreamed of nothing, sinking into that abyssal depth only the truly drunk can reach and understand The wind howled and shrieked through the mountainous area he called his  _ casa _ , whistling as it caught the hole in the wall that served as a window and still he slept on. He was not young and his body took time to catch up with his various activities. Drinking was only the tip of the iceberg. 

~

The next morning found him rising to the sound of footsteps in his cave and the minute prickle of terror upon his flesh. A chill settled in his guts like a stone and he moved, quickly and silently, to the edge of his bed, gripping an old Tediore revolver, jaw tight, ready for anything. He had not even gotten himself dressed, such was his alarm. On the other hand, he had only managed to unwrap his upper half the previous day, which meant that, conveniently, he was still very much armed. 

“Freeze  _ pendejo _ !” Mordecai’s firearm was leveled at the intruder instantly as he emerged swiftly from behind the curtain of his room. Whomever it was, they’d crouched low near Bloodwing’s old perch. “Back off!” The hunter’s voice was raspy, but sharp, commanding and absolutely not playing. Bloodwing’s perch was an altar to him, the holy of holies and nobody was allowed to lay hands upon it. The intruder stilled the swinging rosary and stood, turning. Mordecai knew the silhouette.

“Brick…?” The revolver fell, dematerializing into the hunter’s thigh-mounted storage deck. His heart slammed at his ribs as everything he’d said to Moxxi came rushing back. It was painful, he found, to feel all of this, all at once, and he wondered how people did this regularly. He swallowed hard. “Where… where’d you go,  _ amigo _ ?” 

He hated the hitch in his voice, but swallowed it, wanting answers, first and foremost. There was no reason for any sentimentality, after all. Brick was invincible, as far as Mordecai was aware. He was just messing around in Jakobs Cove, enjoying giant trees, zombies, and wereskags. 

“Jakobs Cove,” said Brick slowly, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world and Mordecai was ridiculous for asking. “TK had some other shit for me to do, so I took a few days… and uh… Well I kinda… felt bad…”

“Felt bad?” Mordecai felt himself wrapping his own skinny arms around his upper body to shield it from the chill and exposure. Why did Brick feel bad?  _ He _ was the one who’d acted like a dickhead. Brick had been trying to help, which of course Mordecai knew now. Hell, maybe he had always known. He just didn’t want to face it. 

“About Bloodwing,” Brick clarified. He held up a hand when Mordecai opened his mouth to protest. “C’mere.”

The hunter approached with caution and apprehension, doing his best to look anywhere but the perch and the swinging rosary. Brick had laid something at the base of it, had surrounded that something with torn cloth and what looked to be sawdust, perhaps some leavings from the Jakobs Cove sawmill, and maybe a few bones. 

It was an egg. More specifically, it was an extremely rare corpse-eater egg. “Turns out, Hammerlock wanted to study one of these babies, but I figured you should have it instead.” Contrary to his very nature as a Vault Hunter, Brick had passed up a huge payoff to deliver a gift to his friend, something which meant more to Mordecai than all the money on all of Pandora, which was a considerable sum. 

Mordecai fell to his knees at the base of Bloodwing’s perch, leaning forward and examining the egg, touching it gently, choking back something thick, heavy, and hot in his throat. It wasn’t the usual thick, heavy, hot thing, either. Tears threatened at the corners of his eyes, making them prickle and it was only then that he noticed he’d forgotten his goggles. But what did it matter? It was Brick, after all. 

Anyone else wouldn’t have lived to tell the tale of those amethyst irises filling with tears and spilling over on gaunt cheeks, falling on the egg like diamonds. 


End file.
